Facts Aren't That Simple
by ravenjetticon
Summary: Series 3, episode 6. Naomi reflects.


She was a strange girl. Clever. Insistent. Ballsy, actually. She said things that made you wonder about her, in a way that stayed with you after she'd gone... sometimes days later, in class or eating dinner or walking home, when your mind was doing nothing particular. With her big, childlike eyes and her meticulous blood-candy hair. Ridiculous.

And it was, really, the whole situation. Never met her in all your life when she found you out on the steps smoking at some party and sat next to you. Awkward at first, mumbling a bit, and you were starting to think she was possibly stupid, but soon she was saying vulgar things and laughing in that soft, innocent voice like she'd known you a lifetime and the next thing you knew she was kissing you, but REALLY kissing you, and fuck all if the same bloody moment her sister didn't pop out the door and start screaming. Fucked right off that second, didn't you, fuck the party and whoever invited you, as if you could even remember. Luckily you'd never seen her again, until a few weeks ago, and suddenly she was everywhere you fucking looked. Her and her cunt of a sister and a whole pack of twats, writing the book on ridiculous, and they couldn't let a person avoid them peacefully, could they, so you gave up trying. But she was too much, this one. Always following you, and making eyes, and wanting you around, and even without Katie's bitching and insults, you just couldn't bloody _take_ it.

So you were rather surprised when you found yourself letting her kiss you again. But it was alright to kiss people when you were shit-faced, and shit-faced you were, so you let that slide in the name of a good party. Wasn't the worst thing you'd done off your tits, anyway, and it's not like one time made you gay or something.

But this time was different. Because between all the shy puppy-dogging and obvious mooning, she'd actually sort of had a personality, and you'd found you didn't mind her around sometimes. You'd sort of become friends, actually, and then... you'd woken up twice now with her next to you, and the last with her legs over yours and a vivid remembrance of a girl's painted fingers gripping your thighs.

Your first instinct was to panic, and you did, and the first time was one thing, but this time was different. You couldn't just walk away saying she got the wrong message, it was just a bit of fun that got out of hand. You couldn't blame it on her or the drugs this time, as much as you wanted to, because in the end, facts were facts.

The fact was, when you called her, you wanted something from her. You followed her down to that lake, refusing to think on what exactly, but humming with nerves. And she brought liquor, like you knew she would, and damn right you drank it, knowing it'd make her brave. And then, knowing she couldn't last the night so close to you without her feelings betraying her, you waited. When she finally, finally slipped her cold, delicate fingers over yours, you smiled. And after she sat up from giving you blowbacks (just _ballsy_, that one), you watched her face as the mild euphoria crept up in you, and you thought, how beautiful. And there, right then, with her eyes bright with the fire and watching you and her hair so entirely unmeticulous, you stopped waiting. And fact was, you kissed her as hard as you'd kissed anyone, and it was warm and urgent and you dove further, over and under, leaving you gasping, trembling, breathlessly alive.

And as soon as light hit your eyes, you fucking split like old trousers, with Emily breaking behind you.

So the rest of the day had been a fucking horrorshow, and here you were now, staring at yourself in the mirror, no longer sure of who you were looking at or of anything else. You didn't look gay, did you? Could people tell just by looking that you'd… had a girl all over you? Could you be the same person after something like that? Were you?

Ha. Only a few short hours ago, you'd even tried to have sex with Cook, something you couldn't have been paid to do the day before. You remembered his eager hands and mouth, and then his cheery smile. You hadn't meant to jerk him about; you really had felt a little prick of curiosity with him. Somehow you knew he wouldn't judge you, and you needed to know just then... you needed to know if she was right. You knew she was right. But you thought you could prove it wasn't about her, because if you did, this whole thing with her was just a misunderstanding. If you felt the same with Cook, well, the answer was obviously something much easier, something you could deal with.

But in the end, facts were facts.

Fact was, when she wasn't making you uncomfortable, she made you laugh. Lots of things amused you, in a remote sort of way, but not much actually made you laugh. And it filled up a space in you that you hadn't known existed before, one you couldn't just close back up again.

Your mother had said that when you found happiness, it was never with the people you'd expect. To hold onto it when you find it. It seemed clichéd and ridiculous now, but—so did everything, you realized, from far away. You had to get closer to see it was real and beautiful.

You wanted to, sometimes. And sometimes, nothing in the world was more frightening.

But it was getting late and you couldn't stand around in the mirror forever. And you weren't sure what you would do or could say but you there had to be something; you'd figure it out on the way. Because the fact was, you thought, as you closed the front door behind you, sometimes your mother was right.

**Note**: Previously uploaded on livejournal, so if it looks familiar, that's why. Somehow it didn't occur to me to post it here until now.

Kind words are appreciated; honest criticism is priceless. Feel free to be brutally honest.


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